


Fall For Me

by foolishgames



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:01:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolishgames/pseuds/foolishgames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love on buses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall For Me

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to livejournal November 2010. Beta by janescott.

Despite the good-natured ribbing that occurred when space on the buses was divvied up at the start of the tour, nobody really minded Adam getting the rear quarter of one bus, with the queen-size with a real mattress and a door that closed and locked. They're all doing the same amount of shows, except Adam is doing all those shows, pouring his heart out on stage every night, every song, and averaging six hours of promo work every day on top of that, interviews with local radio and fan meet-and-greets and signings and getting totally, utterly mobbed every time he stepped outside. He starts looking pale and wan around halfway through the second week, doubling up on concealer under his eyes and falling asleep in weird places. Round the third week he starts getting tense and snappish, irritable with everybody, and though he apologises profusely for making Allison cry - she'd only been teasing, and he'd overreacted - the tension ramps up a little in their little band of troubadours, every getting a little more tetchy.

Tommy starts stocking up on candy bars, carrying them around in his pockets and slipping one into Adam's hand whenever he starts getting cranky. Adam forgets to eat, or maybe he's on some crazy crash diet, but when his blood sugar drops he's like a three-year-old up after bedtime and having something sweet to chew on is a surefire way to both distract and shut him up.

But by far the easiest way to soothe Adam out of a bad mood is physical contact; he’s like a cat, you can pretty much cuddle him happy. When he’s tense and stressed it’s the easiest thing the world for Tommy to just sort of wander up and lean on him casually, Adam’s body relaxing to fit Tommy in, the shrill note going out of his voice.

“I know what you’re doing, you shit,” he says, as Tommy rubs his cheek against Adam’s neck. “It’s not going to work.”

“Mm-hm,” says Tommy, and hooks his thumb into Adam’s belt loop. “You want some tea? Lemme get you some tea.”

“You’d have to detach yourself from my ass to do that,” Adam grumbles, and Tommy kisses his cheek and wanders off to find tea.

It’s not like Tommy minds. He gives awesome hugs, he knows this, he loves hugging people. He’ll hug anybody. Mia calls him a cuddle slut, and he has to agree with her when he falls asleep during a movie a couple of weeks into tour and wakes up to find himself in the centre of some kind of convoluted group snuggle situation with Cam, Liz, Dave and Sasha. On tour, he is designated hug provider, because his life is just that awesome that he deserves to be hugged all the damn time.

But Adam, as it becomes dramatically clear on tour, doesn’t need a hug provider, he needs a fucking keeper. He drives himself totally fucking ragged, takes on more work than he could possibly handle and then feels horrible and guilty when he can’t keep up with a schedule which looks like it was created by the Marquis de Sade and keeps shouting at people because he’s so exhausted he can’t even stand up straight, let alone deal with other people demanding things of him.

So nobody, least of all Tommy, is irritated by Adam having his own room on the bus. Those twelve-and-fourteen hour drives are probably the best chance Adam actually has for uninterrupted rest, especially since he’s pretty much the only one who has a decent bed. Tommy is a little envious, and he takes to sprawling out on the bed next to Adam when he goes in to say goodnight, just for the novelty value of having an actual mattress under him. He does end up on Adam’s bus a lot, even though he’s officially supposed to be on the other one, but there’s a couple of spare bunks that the dancer aren’t occupying and they all swap around fairly regularly anyway.

“Oh my god, just stay here if you’re that delicate, you brat,” Adam says one night. He’s a little pink-cheeked, and Tommy suspects he may have overdone his raptures on how amazing Adam’s bed is. Rubbing himself on the sheets and moaning may have been a bit much.

“I’m not sure my virtue is safe,” he says, and Adam hits him with a pillow.

He feels a little bad the next day, because Adam’s tired, all sleepily malleable because Tommy kept him up late talking when he’s supposed to be making sure Adam doesn’t do shit like that. So he’s extra careful to make sure Adam eats and is all ready to step in and take the brunt of Adam starts getting irritated. There’s no need though, Adam’s just kind of dozy and inattentive rather than cranky all day. He docilely eats what's put in front of him and goes where he's told, and Tommy decides to push his luck and manages to get Adam to lie down for a nap on a couch backstage before the show.

"That is fucking adorable," says Cam. "I should tweet it."

"Fuck you," says Tommy amiably. He pets Adam's head where it's lying in his lap; it took some coaxing, but he'd eventually gotten Adam to sleep by rubbing his head. Adam and Tommy are alike in their shared love of having their hair played with, and Tommy doesn't even mind that it's thick and sticky with product if it gets Adam to sleep an extra half-hour.

 

“I can’t tonight, honey,” says Adam, when Tommy goes to say goodnight. He’s swaying with the motion of the bus, looking faintly green. “I’m too tired, need to get some sleep.”

“That’s ok, it happens to everybody,” says Tommy, and holds out his arms. “We can just cuddle.”

Adam groans and bats at him, but stumbles forward into a hug. Tommy rubs his back gently, soothing circles, and Adam sighs and scratches his nails against Tommy’s shirt. “You not feeling too good, baby?” asks Tommy.

“Headache,” Adam mumbles. “M’neck’s killing me.”

“You take something for it?”

“Hasn’t kicked in yet.” Adam nuzzles his hair. “Keep doing that, feels nice.”

Tommy pats his back. “Go lie down, I’ll give you a proper neck rub. Mia swears by my neck rubs.”

Adam clutches at him. “I love you. I really do,” he says pathetically. “You’re totally my favorite, don’t tell Taylor.”

“I’m leaving you for somebody who cares about my needs,” says Taylor, from his bunk.

Adam sprawls out on the bed with a pained noise, holding his head at a careful angle. 

“You’re a dumbass,” says Tommy. “Roll over, lie on your back.” Adam whimpers out a complaint but obeys, and Tommy gets him arranged so Adam’s head is right at the edge of the bed and Tommy can sit on a cushion on the floor and get his hands into the sore muscles without Adam’s head being twisted around.

Tommy wasn’t exaggerating his awesome massage skills. Adam declares his love as soon Tommy starts, and progresses to marriage proposals inside five minutes. He starts offering unspecified sexual favors at one point, and when Tommy nudges him to roll over so he can get to his shoulders through the thin t-shirt, the offers get graphically specific.

“That is actually disgusting,” Tommy says when Adam burbles something he's fairly sure is impossible. “You’ve never done that, right?”

“I will suck your cock forever if you keep going,” Adam hums happily, and then, “Oh, Tommy,” in this low, drawn-out, totally pornographic way that’s somehow worse than promising to bend Tommy in half and dick him ‘til he screams.

“How’s the headache?” Tommy asks, shifting a little uncomfortably. Adam is probably too blissed out to notice his hard-on, and really in no state to comment on it.

“We’ll be passing through a state with gay marriage pretty soon, I think,” says Adam. “I’ll be good to you, I swear.”

Tommy’s giggling by the time he’s done, Adam deliriously mumbling about how he’s going to dip Tommy in triple fudge icecream and suck it off his nipples. He keeps trying to do illustrative hand gestures, but he’s so tired and floppy he just kind of waves his hands around and moans. Tommy ruffles his hair to signal that he's finished, but it's soft and clean for once instead of sticky with product, and it feels nice. Adam arches up like a cat, so he keeps going, strokes Adam's hair and scratches his scalp in circles until Adam's completely non-verbal, making helpless little pleased noises and twitching occasionally.

"You're such a hedonist," Tommy points out, and Adam makes a sound that might be agreement, and turn his head so he can kiss what he can reach of Tommy, his arm. "I'm totally sleeping in your bed tonight, you know. You're not kicking me out after this."

"Mmmm." Adam sounds dreamily like that's the best idea he's ever heard, so Tommy pulls his hair gently and gets up just long enough to shuck off his outer shirt and pants and switch off the light before crawling back in. 

"You'll be cold if you don't get under the blankets," he tells Adam, settling down. "I'm not tucking you in, I'm not your mother." But Adam is already asleep, and Tommy does spend a few minutes rearranging the bed so that Adam is covered up.

Adam collapses on him at breakfast the next morning in the kitshy diner the buses have stopped at and kisses his cheek noisily. "I really do love you, you know, I wasn't just your magic fingers talking."

"I don't want any context for that sentence," says Cam, across the table. "Ever."

Tommy pets his hair. "I know, honey, but your elbow is in my bacon."

"Bacon!" Adam brightens and promptly steals some. Tommy makes a half-hearted effort to stop him, but doesn't really mind. There's plenty more, but Adam won't have any unless he's stealing it off somebody else's plate, because stolen food has no calories. If he doesn't steal Tommy's bacon, he'll have half an orange for breakfast or something stupid and be cranky all day. So Tommy piles more food on his own plate and chases Adam's sneaky fingers away a little too slow every time.

“Hey, Tommy, can you help me with this?” says Allison after breakfast, brandishing her guitar, so he grabs the nearest acoustic – Dave’s – and pulls her onto Adam’s bus so he can show her the riff he’d been messing around with yesterday. He plays it slower, so she can copy, and pretends not to notice that she blushes a little when he touches her hands to correct her. She really is trying to improve her playing, and he doesn’t mind that she comes to him for help when she knows about six thousand other guitarists. Her crush is far less intrusive and disturbing than, for example, the ten-year-old who swore she would marry him and Adam could come too, or the big guy in head-to-toe leather who tried to tongue-kiss him without warning because he’d heard Tommy liked that sort of thing.

In any case, Allison’s cute as hell, and off-limits in the best kind of way, busy being a teenager at the top of her impressive lungs. She’s got a kind of balls-out confidence that makes her easy to like, and easy to get along with. He pulls her hair when she finally nails it, high-fives her, and then shows her another one, more complicated that makes her groan and cover her eyes and flail at him.

“You tormenting my girl, Tommy?” Adam appears, looming over them, and drops onto the couch between then, wriggling until they make room.

“He is!” Allison moans, and swings her guitar aside to hug him.

“I am, it’s true,” says Tommy, playing a sad little chord. “Toughen up, sweetheart.”

“That’s horrible!” says Adam, with a protective arm around her, but he’s grinning, and Allison is stifling giggles. Tommy pulls a face at them and their cuddliness and invents a song on the spot about how much he loves being mean to pretty girls which makes Adam laugh until he’s breathless and Allison go red and embarrassed.

“She’s got a terrible crush on you,” Adam tells him later, in sound check, and Tommy blinks at him, because does Adam think he’s totally stupid?

“Well, yeah,” he says. “Of course she does.” It’s only when Adam rolls his eyes that Tommy realizes how arrogant that sounds, and he hurries to explain, “I mean, I noticed, dude. It’s cool.”

Adam frowns and draws himself up a little. “It’s not cool, Tommy, she’s just a kid.”

It wasn’t like he wasn’t expecting the whole over-protective big brother spiel at some point. “I know she’s a kid. I’m gonna do anything, what do you think I am?”

“She’s very mature for her age,” says Adam, a little defensively, and Tommy interrupts.

“Are you trying to talk me into this or out of it?” 

Adam laughs at that, shakes his head. “Sorry, man. I gotta say it.”

Tommy raises his hand. “I promise not to take advantage of her, okay? But she’s a smart chick. You can tell, because she’s crushing on me.”

“Because you’re so awesome?” says Adam, with that little face he makes when he’s not sure if Tommy’s messing with him.

“Because I won’t do anything, and she knows it,” Tommy says. “So I’m safe.”

Adam looks adorably puzzled, and Tommy has to remind himself that Adam’s experience with teenage girls is fairly limited. “Because I’m older and inappropriate and in a band,” he explains, “so I’m the right kind of, you know, bad guy. But she’s not actually insane, so I’m a friend of a friend and not really that threatening. Dangerous but not dangerous, right?”

Comprehension dawns across Adam’s face. “Oh. You’re Edward.”

“Fuck right off,” Tommy grumbles and bumps his shoulder companionably against Adam’s. “You know I hate that shit.”

“You love vampires!”

“I do, which is why I hate that.” Tommy makes a face at him, and Adam makes one back, poking out his tongue and crossing his eyes, and they both dissolve into laughter and stumble through soundcheck while Tommy gives his standard lecture on how vampires are scary dark terrifying creatures of the night who drink human blood and prey on the innocent, not fashion accessories for whiny teenagers.

“You’re so mean, Tommy Joe,” says Adam sadly, and changes the lyrics to Sleepwalker so they’re about sparkly vampires and sings in a warbling falsetto, and Monte laughs so hard he misses the start of his solo and Longineu beans him in the head with a drumstick.

The concert that night is insane. Adam slaps him on the ass in Rabbit Hole, and Tommy promptly turns around and chases him across the stage, both of them giggling like loons when they crash into one another. The audience triples in volume, and Adam hooks an arm around his neck and grins like his face is going to break. Later, during Fever, he pulls Tommy’s head back by the hair and nuzzles at his throat, breath blowing hot across his skin, and Tommy lets himself float, drifting along on the unbelievable high of how awesome his whole life is.

He sleeps badly that night, neglects to eat breakfast the next day, or lunch, and rocks up at mid-afternoon with nothing in his stomach but coffee and some pocky he stole off Dave. In the middle of explaining to Cam that nailpolish is totally communal so there’s no way he could possibly have stolen hers, he has a brief dizzy spell and wakes up blinking at the ceiling with a ring of concerned faces above him.

“You fainted,” Cam says. “Like a girl.” Or not so concerned, actually, as Cam looks like she’s barely stifling laughter.

“A girl in a corset,” Longineu agrees. 

“Fuck you guys,” says Tommy groggily.

“Are you okay, honey?” That’s Sutan, wonderful sweet Sutan, stroking his hair and looking actually worried.

“’s hot in here,” Tommy says, and Cam snorts.

“Did you have lunch? No? How about breakfast? Then this is your own dumb fault.” She pats his chest. “Have a sandwich and stop being such a drama queen.”

Which is when Adam bursts in, looking totally frantic, and when he spots Tommy sprawled on the floor, he makes a noise which defies description. “Tommy! Oh my god, what happened?”

“Thought I’d have a nap,” says Tommy, from the dusty floor. “Shhh.”

But Adam has rushed over, hip-checked Sutan out of the way, and is sort of petting his face with fluttering, nervous hands. “Lane said you just went white and collapsed. Are you okay? Are you sick? Why didn’t you say something?”

“I’m fine,” says Tommy, batting the hands away and blithely ignoring the headache gathering behind his eyes. “I just need to eat something.”

But Adam won’t stop fussing, and Tommy finds himself forcibly escorted – half carried, to be truthful – to the little kitchen in the back of the venue, and Adam stands over him while Tommy devours about sixty tiny catering sandwiches and drinks a full bottle of Gatorade. He looks like a demented mother hen, an image reinforced by the fact the he’s streaked his hair with red and spiked it all up like a coxcomb, and he paces restlessly and lectures Tommy about needing to take better care of himself, which is hypocritical enough Tommy stops eating and stares at Adam with his mouth hanging open.

“Close your mouth, that is disgusting,” snaps Adam, and finally sits down beside him, all the fight gone out of him.

“I’m actually okay,” Tommy tells him. “It’s embarrassing, but I really did just faint because I forgot to eat.”

“You and your stupid metabolism,” says Adam. He glares at the table, and Tommy leans over and puts his head on Adam’s shoulder.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” he says. “Have a sandwich, the chicken ones are really good.”

“I’m on a diet,” says Adam, irritably, and has a sandwich.

The show is mellow that night, like Adam’s trying to be gentle with Tommy’s aching head. Coming down the stairs for their Fever opening, and he stops halfway and pulls Tommy’s head back against his belly, cradles his jaw in that big gloved hand and strokes his cheek with a thumb, smiles fondly down at him. The audience goes predictably nuts, but when the fan meet-and-greet after turns out to be edged with a little anxiety and several inquiries after his health, Tommy discovers that Cam – that traitor – has tweeted a picture of him passed out on the floor. Between that and Adam’s gentleness during the show, the internet is quickly convincing itself that Tommy is dying of consumption, which is either hilarious or mortifying. Tommy’s too tired to figure out which, so he puts his phone away and goes to knock on Adam’s door.

They have another all-nighter on the bus, which is about the last Tommy needs, fried as he’s feeling now. “Cam’s making fun of me on the internet,” he whines when Adam calls for him to come in.

“Aw, honey,” says Adam, sitting at the head of the bed. “Do you need a hug?”

“No. Yes,” says Tommy, and crawls into his lap, tucks his face into Adam’s neck, and hangs on. Adam hums a tune Tommy can’t quite place, and rubs his back and neck and rocks him a little, soothing.

“Did you eat vegetables with dinner,” Tommy mumbles, and feels Adam’s chuckle rumble through his chest.

“Yes, mom. I can actually take care of myself.” Adam squeezes the back of his neck, digging his thumb into the little hollow there, which feels awesome.

“Liar,” says Tommy. He gets his arms around Adam’s neck and settles in, absolutely no intention of moving, possibly ever. “Am I killing your legs?”

“You’re teeny-tiny,” says Adam, and pats his thigh. “Don’t worry about it.”

Tommy falls asleep like that, with Adam’s breath ruffling his hair, waking up only a little when Adam finally lays him down and covers him up. “My toothbrush,” he tells Adam, muzzled with sleep, but Adam just laughs and strokes his cheek.  
“Don’t worry, baby. Just sleep.”

 

Tommy’s not exactly sure where they are when it happens. It’s that horrible rock star cliché, been on the road so long all the cities start to blur together, but he thinks somewhere on the east coast, maybe. He’s tired, the fan meet went for hours, and they’ll be driving all night to get to the next city he can’t remember the name of, and the buses are all ready to leave except Adam is nowhere to be fucking found. Neil is grumbling that he didn’t sign up to be Adam’s keeper, and Lane looks ready to cry, so when one of the venue’s sound guys mentions he saw Adam heading back to the dressing rooms, Tommy rolls his eyes and goes to get him. Adam’s probably forgotten some vital jar of glitter, or possibly his hairspray.

He doesn’t knock before he opens the door, just wanders in, and when he sees Adam, he says, “Hey, man, are you coming? We’re all ready to go.”

Or at least, that’s what he intends to say, but he gets as far as “Hey,” before his brain sits up and starts gibbering, because Adam is leaning against the makeup counter with his eyes shut and there is a blond boy on his knees sucking Adam’s cock.

Tommy thinks he must make a noise or something, all the air leaving his body like he’s been punched. Adam opens his eyes and sees him, goes from blissed to horrified in two seconds flat. “We’re ready,” Tommy blurts, and bolts without a shred of dignity.

There’s a couple of hardcore fans still hanging around between the venue and the buses, and Tommy slows down, signs some autographs, takes the time to get himself under control before he has to get back on the bus and spend twelve hours trapped in a small space with Adam and half a dozen of their closest friends. He’d go on the band bus with the others, but the band bus has already gone, the bastards. One girl kisses his cheek and looks like she might faint, another asks shyly if she can touch his hair. He says yes, and yes, and yes again, so when Adam finally emerges behind him Tommy’s at the centre of a crowd of girls who are all stroking him like a puppy.

“There you are,” says Lane, exasperated, from the steps. “Come on, let’s go, get on. Tommy – girls, put him down, he’s not a doll – Adam, I swear I will leave you behind, get on the damn bus.”

Tommy disentangles himself from his admirers, waves goodbye, and follows Adam onto the bus. He can tell from the way Adam keeps looking at him with helpless expression and biting his lip that Adam is desperate to talk to him, but the bus is not huge, and it is full of people. The only place that might be private is Adam’s room up the back.

“Well, I’m pretty beat,” says Adam. “Gonna turn in.”

“If you’re that tired, what took you so long?” Taylor asks. He’s lying on the couch with an arm over his eyes, so he doesn’t see the way Adam flushes a dull red, but Tommy thinks Brooke might have caught it, from the way her eyes narrow.

Adam shoots Tommy a speaking glance as he makes his way down the back, but Tommy sits down on the couch Taylor isn’t hogging and pulls his knees up to his chest as the bus starts moving.

Tommy likes to think he’s not the kind of guy who tries to hide from this shit, who pretends that things haven’t happened. Adam hooked up with a pretty fanboy after a show and that hurts, for some reason. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he can’t ignore it, the image of Adam’s face all soft and stunned with pleasure branded on his eyelids, the feeling he can’t quite shake that he’s been very, very stupid somewhere along the line.

“You okay, honey?” says Brooke, and Tommy realizes he’s been hugging his knees and staring at the floor long enough for the bus to get out of the city – they’re on a highway now, and the lights have been dimmed, and people have drifted back towards the bunks.

“Mmm,” says Tommy noncommittally, and sighs when she reaches over to stroke her fingers through his hair. He loves having his hair played with. “I’m just tired or something, I guess.” 

Brooke makes a quiet, thoughtful noise and sits down beside him, presses a hand against his head. “You aren’t getting sick again, are you?” she wonders.

“I’ve been drinking my orange juice every day,” Tommy tells her, and leans forward so he can snuggle himself into the crook of her shoulder. He loves Brooke. She totally understands his need for human contact, and she wraps an arm around his shoulder and kisses his head.

Adam’s light is still on when Tommy goes to bed, shining under the doorway like an invitation. Tommy slides into the bottom bunk and draws the curtain, relieved at the tenuous illusion of privacy. He can hear Brooke moving around, cleaning her teeth, and then there’s the shaking that marks her climbing into her absurdly precarious top bunk.

“Night,” she whispers, and sound carries through the quiet bus.

“Night, Brooke,” he replies, just as quietly, and then there’s silence.

It’s probably stupid to be upset. Adam’s his boss, not his boyfriend, not his lover, not accountable to Tommy for who he sleeps with. Adam’s made him no promises (Except for “friends for life” and “You’re my favorite, Tommy Joe,” whispered in his ear in a quiet moment like it’s the best secret ever) and never indicated that he’d want something more (except that he lights up when Tommy’s in the room and touches him like he has the right, onstage and off, so much affection and love that it’s like the best relationship Tommy’s ever been in except it isn’t.) 

The worst part is, he isn’t even angry at Adam, even though it would be so easy, because it isn’t like Adam’s done anything wrong. Tommy’s the one who’s messed up, gotten ahead of himself. He’s forgotten that Adam kisses him hello and goodbye and sometimes just for the heck but it doesn’t mean anything except that Adam’s affectionate and bad at boundaries, that snuggling on the couch watching movies and falling asleep like some besotted couple doesn’t actually mean they are, that Adam’s pulled him from obscurity and given him everything he ever dreamed of and never, ever asked for anything in return but Tommy’s friendship and Adam doesn’t owe him anything, especially not loyalty to a relationship that doesn’t even exist. Worse, that Tommy's somehow let himself start acting like he does have Adam that way, started assuming it somewhere inside his stupid head, that Adam is his, that the way Adam touches him is special and meaningful instead of casual and convenient.

Tommy doesn’t sleep that night, twitches awake every time he’s almost drifted off to be angry at himself for being such a moron. This means, of course, that he’s awake when Adam’s door opens, some time in the early hours of the morning. He lies very still, but Adam doesn’t go to the tiny bathroom wedged between his room and the bunks, and he doesn’t go past them into the little living space. He crouches down instead, and whispers, “Tommy? You awake?”

Tommy considers answering, but this isn’t a conversation he wants to have at three in the morning on a bus. After a moment, Adam brushes the privacy curtain back enough that a little light shines in, and then Tommy feels Adam touch his hair, very softly, and let his fingers run down Tommy’s cheek. Adam doesn’t say anything else, just strokes his face for a moment, and then he pulls the curtain back into place, and Tommy hears his knees crack as Adam stands and goes back to his room.

It is seriously no fucking wonder Tommy can’t keep things straight – hah – when Adam pulls this shit.

~

Tommy lets Adam corner him the next day before sound check. He's dopey-tired, and Adam's not much better from the looks of things, but it's pretty easy for Adam to herd him into a deserted corner with a determined look.

"Tommy," says Adam breathlessly. "Tommy, I'm so sorry."

Tommy shakes his head. His bangs fall in his eyes, so he doesn't have to look at Adam. "No, it's okay, don't worry about it." Forget three in the morning, he doesn't want to have this conversation ever, Adam's eyes shiny and earnest and sad, and Tommy does not need this shit to get complicated. He needs it simple: Adam is his friend, Adam doesn't owe him anything, Tommy has been stupid to let himself get in this deep. It's hard to keep that in his mind with Adam looking at him like that.

"I just feel awful," Adam is saying. "I just - honey, I didn't mean for anybody to see, especially not you. I know that doesn't make it okay, but."

"Oh my god," says Tommy, exasperated. "You're a fucking rock star, Lambert, nobody is going to care if you have twenty boys lined up to suck your dick in your fucking dressing room after every show." Except for Tommy, who has no right to get upset. It comes out sharp and annoyed anyway.

Adam's head jerks back, and he looks shocked in a way that might be hilarious under other circumstances. "You're not - it doesn't bother you?"

"You could lock the door next time," Tommy says, and turns himself sideways so he can slip past Adam, who doesn't try to stop him. "Or pick a time when the rest of the crew isn't waiting for you to show up so we can get on the road."

Adam catches his hand before he can make good his escape, presses their fingers together. "Tommy," he says, and Tommy waits for him to go on, but Adam just looks at him, some kind of silent question in his eyes that Tommy can't decipher. He shakes his head, frowning, and Adam sighs sadly and lets him go.

"Okay," he says. "No, I just wanted to make sure I hadn't - um. Upset you."

"Why would I be upset?" Tommy mutters, and for the rest of the afternoon can't shake the feeling that Adam actually looks a little hurt at his dismissal.

 

Tommy likes Taylor, in a helpless sort of way, because he’s pretty impossible not to like. He’s sweet and dorky and earnest, like a big puppy, until he’s dancing, when he turns into a totally different person, all focus and sensuality.

He’s also painfully young sometimes, which can be easy to forget, and he adores Adam, hero-worships him without a trace of self-consciousness. So far on the tour he’s been like a kid on the biggest longest rollercoaster ever, all unbridled enthusiasm and occasional shrieking, but even bubbly Taylor can’t shrug off Adam’s recent black mood forever. When Adam’s rehearsal with the dancers ends with Taylor fleeing in tears – like, actually in tears, which is so wrong on his sweet little face – Brooke collars Tommy and drags him into a broom closet. Now, some of Tommy’s fondest dreams involve Brooke dragging him into closets, because seriously, Brooke is totally awesome and hot and he’s only human, but she looks pissed off and her shirt is kind of soggy from Taylor crying on it, so it’s far less enjoyable than he’d hoped.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re fighting with him about,” she begins, furiously.

“I’m not!” Tommy yelps. “I didn’t do anything!”

Brooke rolls her eyes. “Shut up, we’re not stupid. You run away every time it looks like somebody might leave you two alone and Adam looks like somebody stomped on his puppy. You’re such boys.” She jabs him in the chest. “I don’t know how you got voted Adam’s keeper, but he won’t take it from anybody else, so you’re it.”

“This is absolutely not my fault,” Tommy protests.

“I do not care even a little bit,” says Brooke, but her face softens. “Shit, I know you didn’t sign up for it and it isn’t your job, but Tommy.”

“Oh god don’t look at me like that.” Tommy is a sucker for pretty girls looking pleading. It’s, like, a major character flaw. “You all owe me. I am picking the movies for the rest of the tour.”

“I love you,” Brooke exclaims, and throws her arms around his neck, and Tommy is such a chump sometimes.

Adam is in his dressing room, because he has interviews with local media in the afternoon and has to look pretty even though it’s mostly radio shit. Sutan is attacking him with a powder brush and a lot of annoyance while Adam glares at himself in the mirror.

“God, don’t you start,” Adam snaps when Tommy comes in.

“Okay,” says Tommy, and hitches himself up on the dresser, watching Sutan work. Adam eyes him suspiciously until he has to shut his eyes to avoid being blinded by hairspray. Sutan is not being gentle today, tight-lipped with annoyance, turning Adam’s head firmly this way and that. Tommy raises an eyebrow at him, and Sutan rolls his eyes.

“You’re done,” he tells Adam. “Try to smile or something, people like that shit.” He stomps out without even bothering to pack up his tools, and Adam sighs wearily and tips his head against the back of the chair without opening his eyes. Tommy waits.

“How’s Taylor?” asks Adam, at last. He sounds, at least, a little embarrassed.

“Having the shit cuddled out of him by the three most attractive women in the country,” says Tommy. “So I think he’s probably stopped crying now.”

Adam groans and covers his eyes, careful not to smudge his makeup. “I’m a terrible person,” he says, pitifully.

“And an abusive boss,” says Tommy agreeably. “And a shit singer, while we’re at it, and a neglectful son. Also, you’re totally going to die fat and alone.” Adam stares at him in astonishment, and Tommy holds a bland face as long as he can. “I’m sorry, are we not playing ‘things that are the opposite of true’?”

For a minute, he thinks Adam might actually flip out and start yelling or crying or something, but instead he says, “Heh,” vaguely, and sort of slumps down in his seat. He looks weirdly small, kind of tense and miserable, and Tommy sighs. “Oh, for God’s sake, come here.” Adam’s moving before he’s even got half the sentence out, scoots his chair forward and wraps his arms around Tommy’s waist.

“You’re so dumb sometimes,” says Tommy. He can’t stroke Adam’s hair when it’s styled like this without the risk of impaling himself, but he rubs his fingers against the base of his skull instead as Adam burrows against his chest, prickly.

“Are you still mad at me?” Adam’s voice is all muffled.

“I wasn’t mad at you before,” says Tommy, pulling gently on Adam’s helix piercing. “But then you made Taylor cry. That shit is not okay. Taylor is my homeboy, you know.”  
Adam giggles. “I’m sorry.”

“Not to me, honey.” Adam is big and warm across his lap, and it’s comforting to have him so close again after the distance he’s been maintaining.

Adam shakes his head a little. “No, I’m sorry.” His fingers stroke against the small of Tommy’s back, and he pulls away so he can look up into his face. “You’ve been so awesome this whole tour. I know I’m not easy to get along with sometimes.”

“You are, though,” says Tommy. “I like you.”

Adam smiles, and it’s kind of beautiful. “Aw, Tommy. I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable or something. I didn’t mean to make you think you weren’t, like, important.”

Tommy’s stupid heart goes all clenchy in his chest, and he can feel his face getting red. “It really isn’t a big deal, Adam,” he lies.

Adam bumps his head against Tommy’s sternum. “Yeah, it is. You’re a fucking big deal, Tommy.” He sounds painfully earnest, and Tommy feels a wave of helpless affection. He wants to hug the shit out of Adam, wants to slide off the counter into his lap and hang on until one of them starts making sense.

But Lane comes in, in her usual stompy demanding way, and says, “Adam, you were supposed to be on your way to the radio station ten minutes ago, what are you doing, you total lunatic?”

And Adam jumps up and says, “Shit, no, I have to find Taylor!” and rushes off, then rushes back two seconds later to kiss Tommy’s face, all wet-delighted. “You’re my favorite, honey, thanks.”

And then Tommy is left alone in Adam’s dressing room, kicking his heels against the counter and torn between delight and dread. He’s such a pushover.

He eventually follows after, and Adam’s standing in the hallway clutching at Taylor like a shaggy life preserver. Taylor appears to be tolerating it rather well, given that he’s giggling into Adam’s chest while Lane paces around in circles and curses and flaps her hands like she can compel them into the car if she creates enough of a breeze. Eventually Adam is persuaded to let go and go to his interviews, but not before he announces, “I’m going to be less of a shit, you guys, I promise,” to general approval. Brooke nods and pats Tommy on the head, and he scowls at her.

Taylor comes and hugs Tommy too, after Adam’s gone. “Now I’m all embarrassed,” he says, face red.

“Breakfast?” says Tommy, and Taylor cracks up while everybody else looks confused. (He’d woken up one morning in Mexico, in Adam’s bed in a corset and girl’s underpants with Taylor wrapped around him in nothing but a feather boa and Tommy’s lipstick on his neck. “The worst part is, this only the second-gayest thing to ever happen to me,” Taylor had said, and they’d found pants and ordered eggs for breakfast while Taylor told him the story of the gayest thing. Now in awkward situations Taylor will suggest ‘breakfast!’ in this cheerful guileless way that never fails to make Tommy laugh.)

That night, Brooke and Taylor somehow switch parts in the Fever dance, so that at the start of the second chorus, it’s Taylor who snuggles up behind Tommy and kisses his cheek while Brooke wanders off to grind up on Cam's little platform. Tommy leans back into it and turns his head so their noses brush together, and Adam’s shocked laughter when he spots them totally makes up for the angry tweets he gets later on from fans accusing him of being a cheating whore.

“You guys are such teases,” Adam moans later on, when they’re too wired to sleep and passing time by playing poker on the bus. “Pulling that shit on me in the middle of a show.”

“I stole your so-and-so,” Taylor proclaims gleefully. He’s attempting to braid Tommy’s hair, which is a transparent ploy to sneak a look at his cards, but feels nice, so Tommy doesn’t care. They’re only playing for candy anyway.

“It was narratively relevant,” Brooke agrees. “Tommy’s your slow-walking baby, and Taylor’s the homewrecker who steals him.”

“You were snuggling,” whines Adam, laying down his cards. He’s got a mismatch of lower-numbered cards that he stares at despondently. “Snuggling right there where everybody could see.”

“Somebody please give Adam a hug,” says Tommy sleepily. “I would, but I’m totally comfy snuggling with the homewrecker over here.”

Sasha laughs and leans over to hug Adam, who sniffles dramatically and steals some jellybeans from the pot, prompting outcry, a minor food fight, and pretty much ending the game, which is good, because Terrance was totally cheating.

He kisses Adam goodnight that night, a friendly peck on the cheek, but doesn’t go to his room to talk late into the night. Adam looks delighted anyway, holds Tommy’s face in his hands and smiles warmly down at him in that way that makes Tommy tongue-tied and desperate to do something stupid, like anything Adam wants.

“I’m such a loser,” he complains to Mia on the phone a few days later. “I actually want to punch myself in the face for being so pathetic.”

“Aw, honey,” she murmurs. “It is kind of pathetic.”

“You are not helping!” says Tommy. “I call you for help, and you make fun of me!”

“You don’t call for help, you call to complain about your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my damn boyfriend.” Tommy flings himself crossways across the hotel bed, landing with a grunt.

“Why not?” says Mia. “He snuggles you and buys you presents and kisses you and takes you to concerts and is basically the sweetest most perfectly boyfriendy guy ever.”

“Except for the groupies.”

“Except for that, but I bet if you were sucking his dick you could make a rule about groupies.”

“Mia, I am not dating Adam.”

“But you really, really want, to don’t you?”

“Well, that’s kind of the problem,” says Tommy, and Mia is cackling as she hangs up.

The problem is not that he wants to date Adam. That’s never been a problem. Tommy crushes on people sometimes, that’s cool, he can still be friends, especially with somebody as awesome as Adam. The problem is not even that Adam doesn’t want to date him, because Tommy can understand that. He thinks that from where Adam’s standing, the world is completely full of pretty boys who desperately want to fulfill Adam’s every exotic sexual whim, and all Adam has to do is pick one out. Or three. That Adam would prefer to avoid the complications of dating a friend, an employee, someone he has to work with, for something easy and casual and uncomplicated – Tommy totally gets that.

No, the problem is that Adam doesn’t want to date him, but still acts like his boyfriend. And it’s driving Tommy completely insane, because Adam is completely awesome at the boyfriend thing (except for the groupies), and Tommy’s stuck in the position of having to be the grown-up. With, like, boundaries and shit.

Like not staying in Adam’s bed even though it’s really comfortable and Adam is warm and snuggly and feels so good and complains and clings to him when he tries to leave.

Like pulling gently away from hugs that threaten to turn intimate and pretending not to see the disappointment on his face.

Like not letting Adam kiss him on the mouth like that, which he does in South Dakota, still running on adrenaline and wonder after an amazing show, picks Tommy up and spins him around, laughing and laughing and laughing until they stagger into a wall and Adam connects their grinning mouths in sloppy toothy kiss. He can feel every sweaty shaking inch of Adam shoved up against him, the hard press of his dick and the rough sweetness of his mouth, and it’s like swallowing lightning, every nerve sitting up and screaming, the breath rushing from his lungs, his whole world narrowed down to Adam.

Adam bites him on the mouth and Tommy’s body just fucking reacts, doesn’t even care that they’re in a public sort of place where anybody could see them. He’s hanging on around Adam’s neck with both arms, feet not even touching the ground, and his hips twist up in a way he didn’t know he was capable of. Adam groans, and grabs Tommy by the ass, hitches him up, and it’s the most natural thing in the world for Tommy to get his legs up around Adam’s hips and grind them together, trusting Adam to hold him.

Adam’s kisses turn from messy to lush. He’s a hedonist even in this, tasting Tommy’s mouth like it’s a gourmet dish, little muffled noises of appreciation, and Tommy just lets him, completely overwhelmed, pinned like a butterfly between the wall and Adam. It’s stunningly good like he’s never let himself think about, and he’s hard as a rock just from rubbing up against Adam’s belly, the total lack of space between them.

And then Adam makes a furious noise and wrenches his mouth away, drops Tommy like he’s burning and staggers backwards. Tommy slides down the wall and can’t get his legs under him in time, ends up on the floor, blinking up at Adam.

“Shit,” says Adam, vehement. In the weird half-light of backstage, he glitters madly, one half of his face sparkling like a diamond, the other shrouded in shadow. It means his expression is hard to make out. “Fuck, Tommy, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to – shit, I have to go.” He backs away like if he turns his back he’ll be attacked.

“Wait,” Tommy croaks, then licks his lips, clear his throat and tries again. “Wait, what the fuck was that?”

Adam freezes guiltily. “I’m sorry,” he says again, like Tommy needs to be fucking reminded. “I didn’t – I just got carried away. I won’t do it again.”

“That is so not what I meant.” Tommy manages to coordinate his limbs long enough to lever himself upright. He wobbles towards Adam unsteadily, sees him check an instinctive reaction to reach out and support Tommy. “What the hell was that?” He touches Adam’s face, turns it towards him.

Adam’s eyes are lowered, lashes fanned out against his cheeks, Sutan’s art streaked across his temples. “It was nothing,” he says in a low voice. “Shit, Tommy – you know how I get after a show. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, I always swore I wouldn’t – I’m so sorry.”

Tommy swallows. “After a show,” he says flatly, visions of the boy in Adam’s dressing room filling his head. Maybe he has a boy in every dressing room. Tommy hasn’t exactly been checking. “That’s it? That’s all?”

Adam nods, darts a pleading look at him. “Baby, I would never ask you to – it’s not like that with us. I should not have done that, absolutely not. I don’t want you to think that it’s like that.” 

“No,” says Tommy. His stomach is leaden. “No, of course not.” He steps back, out of Adam’s space. ‘”Well, I’ll remember to stay out of your way after a show now, I guess,” he says. Adam makes a strangled noise, maybe a protest, but Tommy turns on his heel and charges away into the murky backstage area, away from Adam, anywhere.

 

A few extremely awkward days later, Tommy has a bad rest stop burrito and ends up hurling his guts up in the dark, bad-smelling bathroom and cursing his whole stupid life. Once he’s done rinsing his mouth and avoiding the gaze of the teamster peacefully deciphering the graffiti above the urinals, he staggers outside and stands blinking at the empty space where the buses had been.

It’s about three-thirty in the morning, and the sky beyond the fluorescent lights of the rest stop is ink-dark, the flat plains of somewhere in middle America stretching out into darkness. The gravel crunches under Tommy’s flip-flops and he walks unsteadily to the edge of the road, peering up and down like he expects to see the buses disappearing around a bend. There’s nothing, of course, the road completely empty in either direction as far as he can see.

There’s a panicked minute where he thinks he’s left his phone on the bus and is stranded here with no way to contact anybody, but after a moment of slapping himself all over in a frenzy, he finds it in the back pocket of his jeans and fumbles it out.

“I don’t have any damn cookies, Jesus,” says Lane when she answers the phone.

“Um,” says Tommy. “What?”

There’s an audible sigh. “Sorry. What do you need?”

“Not cookies,” says Tommy. “You guys left me at the rest stop.”

Lane doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then she swears sharply. “You’re kidding.”

“It’s dark here and there’s a scary dude in the bathrooms. Please come get me.”

She mutters something about herding cats, and says “Okay, fine, we’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“You haven’t gone that far,” Tommy protests.

She snaps, “Well, we have to find a place to turn around,” and hangs up on him.

Tommy considers calling somebody else to complain, but: three-thirty in the morning. On, like, a Monday. He doesn’t hate anybody that much. He tucks his phone in the pocket of his hoodie and finds a bench to sit on, staring out at the dark with his knees up under his chin. There's not another soul around, except the half-comatose cashier in the gas station and the teamster in the bathrooms.

It’s the first time he’s been alone in weeks, nothing but space and silence around him. There’s always so many people, sharing hotel rooms and dressing rooms and bus space, that Tommy sometimes feels like he’s crawling all over with presence, sharing even his headspace, a crowd in his brain.

He sits on the bench and inhales the fresh air, the smell of growing things and heat and the slight oily fuel-smell and feels like he’s floating, like without half a dozen people sharing his air he might lose his grip on the skin of the earth and drift away. The night is silent and peaceful, stretched away into the distance, and Tommy drowses a little, ill at ease but too tired to stay properly awake. The gas station attendant emerges to have a furtive cigarette around the other side of the building, sparing Tommy no more than a disinterested glance as he passes, and Tommy presses his chin against his knees and stares out across the plains.

He remembers the night he’d met Adam’s friends, when Adam had started out introducing him as “This is Tommy, my new bassist,” progressed to giggling “This is my new Tommy,” and ended the night smashed off his face clinging to Tommy’s neck and saying “Tommy’s miiiiine an’ you’re all jealous.” Tommy’s never managed to find a way to refute it. He’s been Adam’s since they met, Adam’s bassist and Adam’s friend and Adam’s employee and Adam’s provider of hugs and headrubs, Adam’s teddy bear and Adam’s stripper pole. But not Adam’s boyfriend. Adam doesn’t want that, or doesn’t want to give it.

Tommy’s always hated the phrase ‘just friends’. Being friends isn’t settling for second best and it’s not a lesser relationship than one with sex. Friends is totally awesome. 

Nevertheless, he can’t help thinking like Adam is missing the point when he says I would never ask you to, because he’s never had to ask, Tommy handed it all over ages ago. For Adam to draw the line at no sex when he snuggles Tommy to sleep at night and licks him onstage and holds Tommy’s career in his perfectly-manicured hand and acts like Tommy’s the most beautiful amazing thing in the world is either pedantic or insulting.

It begins to rain, a little, just a cool thick mist settling on the ground. Tommy pulls his hood up and considers going to sit under the canopy of the gas station, but he’s not cold, it’s not heavy, and if he’s not exactly comfortable on the hard wooden bench, he’s not uncomfortable enough to overcome his fuzzy lethargy. He ducks his head down low enough that his face won’t get damp, leans his forehead against his knees.

He doesn’t mean to sleep, but he’s woken by somebody gently touching his shoulder, calling his name.

“Tommy? Wake up, honey. I’m sorry we took so long.” Adam is big and warm, sitting on the bench beside him, and Tommy sniffles sleepily and leans into his bulk.

“Y’left me,” he mutters.

“I’m so sorry,” says Adam, rubbing gentle fingers on the back of his head through his hood. “We thought you were on the band bus tonight.”

Tommy thinks about that. “I was on the band bus,” he decides. “They left me. Bastards.” Not really their fault; though Tommy is officially assigned to the band bus, he spends most nights on the bus with Adam and the dancers.

“You ever tried to turn a bus around on a freeway?” says Adam conversationally, helping Tommy up. Tommy snuggles under his arm as they move towards the bus; he feels like he’s walking underwater, dopey-tired and malleable. “It was fun. We caused a traffic jam. I mean, it’s four-thirty in the morning, so it was, like, three cars, but still. Up you go.” He pushes Tommy ahead of him, gives him a little lift at the waist to get him up the first high step. Tommy gets his footing and turns to face Adam.

“You’re dumb,” says Tommy. “And I’m kind of mad at you.” He leans down and kisses Adam, deliberately soft, and Adam draws in this stunned breath and doesn’t pull away. Tommy lets it linger for a moment, and draws back to look at Adam’s face all open and wide-eyed, leaves him like that.

He doesn’t even slow down enough to get his jeans off, just dives for his bunk, and yanks the curtain shut, and huddles, so when Adam comes in he's already tucked away.

“We’re so talking about this,” Adam mutters as he goes past.

“Tomorrow,” whispers Tommy, and Adam sighs deeply. The bus pulls back onto the highway and starts picking up speed as Adam’s footsteps track towards the back.

 

They don’t talk about it the next day. Tommy sleeps for about thirty seconds before they have to get up again, and he staggers through the day, trips over his own shoes during soundcheck and almost brains himself on the stairs. He manages to catch a nap before the show, but it leaves him groggy and without the time to do his makeup properly before the show.

He couldn’t swear as to how the show goes. Adam bites him on the nose, but aside from that, it’s a blur.

“Another bus night,” says Taylor after the show, with an expression of totally inappropriate bliss. Taylor loves being on the bus. Sasha thinks it’s because he’s the right age for college and is subconsciously yearning for dorm living. Terrance thinks it’s because Taylor is a monkey who loves cuddles and social grooming and shit like that. Tommy just thinks he’s weird.

“Just a couple of hours,” says Lane as they groan. “We’ll get to the hotel around 2am, and tomorrow is a day off. Smile, guys, it’s okay.”

Tommy tries to go and talk to some fans, but Sutan has to come rescue him when he falls asleep on a lamp post. “I love Sutan,” he tells the circle of wide-eyed, camera-toting girls. “Sutan’s my favorite.”

“Aw, honey,” says Sutan, pinching his backside. “You’re a terrible liar, but thanks anyway.”

Despite his exhaustion, Tommy finds himself annoyingly awake for the short bus ride, staring at the pretty colours on the ceiling of his darkened bunk and feeling vaguely ill, but as soon as he hits the hotel he falls face-first into his bed without even taking his shoes off and passes the fuck out.

When he wakes the next day, Monte’s bed on the other side of the room is empty, and a few phone calls is enough to discover that everyone else is out doing day-off shit, shopping and finding Laundromats and taking inappropriate pictures at improbable tourist destinations. (Sutan is going to get his ass drop-kicked off the world’s largest ball of string one of these days if he isn’t careful)

After showering and calling room service and futzing around with his phone, checking his emails and twitter, he finally gets up the nerve and calls Adam. It goes right to voicemail and he hangs up without leaving a message, and when his phone rings almost straightaway he jumps.

“Sorry, my phone was off,” says Adam. “You finally awake?”

"No, I’m sleep-dialling you. It’s like drunk-dialling, only more so.”

“You’re impressively coherent for a dude who’s unconscious.” Adam sounds vaguely distracted, and he says “Hang on,” and Tommy can hear him talking to somebody else, too muffled to make out. “You got any plans for the day, Tommy?”

“Sloth,” replies Tommy. “Me and this bed getting really well acquainted.”

“Can you fit me in?”

“In my bed?” says Tommy, and winces. “I mean, I think I could find you a slot. You out?”

“I’m being incognito rock-star today, except Taylor is wearing his most obnoxious Glamnation shirt, so it’s not really working. I’m heading back.”

“I’ll be here. I mean, I have no idea what room I’m in, so you’ll have to knock on every door in the place until you find me, but I’ll be waiting.”

“See you soon.”

Adam shows up forty minutes later with two giant cups of takeout coffee and a big bag of candy. “I’ve got to stop shopping with Taylor,” he says, breathless.

“No, just stop letting him drag you into candy stores,” says Tommy, swiping the bag. Ooh, peanut butter.

Adam joins him on the bed and they pass the candy bag back and forth companionably until Adam takes his hand. “So, we really should talk about this.”

“Okay,” says Tommy, licking chocolate off his free hand. “Go.”

Adam sighs and strokes Tommy’s fingers, which is enormously distracting. “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to apologise again about the other night. I never wanted to be the kind of –look, I did the whole struggling musician thing, right?”

Tommy nods, not sure where he’s going with this.

“And I never wanted to be the guy who turned it into something tawdry. What we’re doing is so amazing, I don’t want to take advantage of that, you know? Sometimes you gotta take the gift and not ask for more.”

Tommy stares at him, shakes his head. “I’m not following you, here.”

Adam twists his mouth to the side. “I’ve never had people working for me before. I don’t want to be a bad boss, like just because I gave you a job and an opportunity means you owe me anything, because it doesn’t, you know?”

“Okay,” says Tommy, hesitantly. He flips his hand over so he’s holding Adam by the wrist, thumb tracing over the ink. “Go on.”

“That’s it, pretty much,” says Adam.

“I’m gonna need a little more,” says Tommy.

“Look, I’ll try and keep my hands to myself, okay? And you shouldn’t feel like you have to put up with me if I’m overstepping,” says Adam, and he sounds so genuinely upset that Tommy misses what he’s said for a minute.

“Wait. Wait, hang on.” He takes Adam’s face between his hands so Adam has to look at him. “Sweetie, are you talking about sexual harassment? Is that where this is coming from?”

Adam looks dejected. “Yeah. I’m sorry if I made you feel like we have a hostile working relationship.”

Tommy breaks into laughter, giddy, relieved, a little embarrassed. “Jesus, Adam,” he manages, and kisses Adam’s hurt little face, presses his nose into Adam’s neck. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Adam hugs him back, big strong arms around him, the most familiar and comforting thing in the whole world. “Okay, that’s – good? That’s a good reaction?” He sounds a little lost. Tommy pets his hair.

“Have you been really stressing out over this?” he asks. “Please tell me you haven’t been totally killing yourself to not sexually harass me.”

“Okay, when you put it that way it sounds kind of goofy,” says Adam.

Tommy kisses his temple, smack, and grins. “But you wanna fuck me, right?” Adam sort of squeaks in alarm, so Tommy strokes his cheek and says “Please keep in mind that I’m in your lap and cuddling you and not feeling remotely harassed right now. I won’t take it as a request, I promise.”

Adam nods, pink-cheeked, and then looks up from under his lashes at Tommy. “I really kind of do. Could you get off me?”

“Do I have to?” says Tommy, and rolls off him to lie on the bed. “You have no idea what a relief this is.”

“Uh,” says Adam, and Tommy peeks over to see that Adam is all wide-eyed and red-faced and staring at where Tommy's loose shirt has ridden up.

"I couldn't figure it out, man. You'd be all over me one second, sending all these signals, and then oh no, can't do this, I don't want to, PS groupies in my dressing room."

"That was one time," Adam complains. "I was trying to - God, Tommy, you drive me crazy, you know that?" He reaches over and touches Tommy's cheek with his knuckles. "I was trying to be good."

"Oh, honey," says Tommy and pulls Adam down so they're lying together on their sides, facing one another. "This's been hurting you?"

Adam shrugs, looking uneasy. "I guess I'm used to it? I mean, I'm kind of dumb, I keep falling for these guys who are the worst kind of unavailable. You're just... more."

Tommy frowns, brushes his fingertips across Adam's brow. "More unavailable?"

Adam's eyes fall shut, and turns his face into the touch with an expression that makes Tommy's gut clench. "No. More - harder to be around. More. Tempting." It's a whisper, eyes squeezed shut, and Tommy doesn't even have to think about his next move.

Adam gasps when their mouths connect, trembles and goes tense. Tommy makes it gentle, because Adam's so scared, about ready to run out the door because that's all he's been doing, running away from Tommy for Tommy's own good.

"I thought you didn't want me," Tommy whispers, right against Adam's mouth. "God, I couldn't figure out what I was doing wrong."

Adam whimpers, and his big hands come up to frame Tommy's face. "You were - oh, God, Tommy, you don't have to do this," he says, and he sounds totally wrecked. "You don't need to -"

"I do need to," says Tommy. "I'm gonna fucking die if I don't, Adam, please."

Adam groans, and Tommy swallows it down, chases it into his mouth. For a minute it seems like Adam's going to keep trying to be noble, because he's stiff as a board and shaking, and then he sucks in a deep breath as their lips come apart briefly and just gives, letting Tommy press him onto his back and get on top of him.

It's whole different experience with Adam on board, because Adam kisses like he's dying, like kissing Tommy is the last most important thing he'll ever do because somebody's going to shoot him as soon as they're done. Tommy falls into him, totally overwhelmed, lets his weight sink down on Adam's chest and press them together, and Adam opens right up, all of him spread wide open under Tommy.

Adam's insistent hands get under Tommy's shirt and up, sliding over bare skin until Tommy lifts his arms and it's gone and Adam scratches his nails over Tommy's shoulders and says Tommy's name in this soft, wondering way. Tommy finds a very faint smattering of freckles on his neck not covered by makeup, follows them methodically down until Adam's collar gets in the way and Adam whines and his hips rock into Tommy's, perfect, yes.

"C'mon," says Tommy, and wrestles Adam upright to get his shirt off, which leaves all his hair sticking up every which-way, so Tommy has to get his hands in it and kiss Adam some more, deep searching kisses, kneeling between Adam's spread thighs with Adam's arms around his waist.

Adam breaks off and lets his head fall back, panting, his mouth open and red. The long line of his throat is exposed and Tommy nips at it, which makes Adam clutch at him, and they fall back onto the bed, half laughing.

"Tommy," says Adam. "Tommy, oh my god, get -" but he's smiling and touching Tommy with his big soft hands, down over his ribs and his waist and hooking into the waistband of his shorts, so Tommy just smiles back and flicks the gleaming piercing in Adam's nipple. "Fu-uck," says Adam, this little hitch in his voice, and Tommy laughs and bends his head, uses his mouth all gentle on one and then the other until Adam curses and grabs desperately at his own zipper.

Tommy backs off to let Adam get himself loose, shucks off his own, crawls back between Adam's legs. He's freckled everywhere, and Tommy wonders what the hell Adam's been doing to get sun kissed on the crease of his groin, the soft skin high up on his inner thighs. He wants to explore more, find all of his freckles and bite them, get the taste of Adam's skin in his mouth, but Adam makes an urgent noise and pulls him up to kiss him again. Tommy fits into the cradle of Adam's hips and arms and kisses everything he can reach, Adam's chin and jaw and the curve of his shoulder and his lush, amazing mouth, over and over while Adam strokes his back and hooks a leg behind Tommy's, the feel of him amazing and intense.

Their cocks are snugged together between them, all friendly and warm, and Tommy puts his hand down to feel that, the way they're rubbing and smearing wet on Adam's belly, how big Adam is, the difference between them. Adam groans and turns his face to the side when Tommy strokes him, like he can't even watch, too much, and Tommy licks his ear happily and rubs his palm over the head of Adam's cock, likes the way he shudders.

Adam starts getting incoherent right then, making noise that might have been words but is mostly just mumbling and groaning, occasionally Tommy's name or a curse or a desperate-sounding "God, wanna, please," and it's having this effect on Tommy, he's out of control, burning up. Adam is so hot underneath him, hot to touch and hot to look at, and Tommy can't even handle it, everything he hasn't been allowed to want crashing over him.

“Oh my god,” says Adam, his voice thick and drugged. “Oh my god, Tommy, I want to suck you, I want – please,” he breaks off, panting, as Tommy closes a hand around him and squeezes.

“No arguments here,” says Tommy, but when Adam moves like he’s going to roll them over, Tommy pushes him back. “Stay there, I got this one,” he says, because having Adam spread out underneath him is possibly the most amazing in thing in history and he’s not quite willing to give it up just yet. He grabs a pillow and shoves it behind Adam’s head, propping him up.

Adam says, “Holy shit,” in this delighted, disbelieving way when Tommy crawls up his body to sit on his chest. “Ugh, pinch me, I’m dreaming.”

“Good dream,” says Tommy. “My dreams are always about, like, my boots trying to eat me or kayaking in pudding.”

Adam laughs and gets an arm behind Tommy’s hips to pull him forward, and Tommy braces an arm on the headboard and watches his cock go into Adam’s red mouth. This isn’t a dream, he knows; he would never have dared to dream the way Adam’s eyes flutter closed like he’s concentrating, the steady kneading flex and press of his fingers, and even as it’s happening he can’t think too hard about Adam’s mouth, the way Adam is sucking him, the way it fucking feels, so hot.

He can’t help a shove of his hips, and Adam just relaxes and takes it, so he does it again and again, shallow little fucks into Adam’s mouth as Adam’s breathing goes short and choppy to compensate, urges him on with those big hands on his ass and the little grunts every time Tommy pushes little too far. Tommy touches his cheek, feels the way Adam’s mouth is flexing to take him in, has to dig his knuckles into the pillow by Adam’s head and just breathe for a minute, because this is way too fucking hot. He feels dizzy from it, the heat and wetness and the view, Adam underneath him, so fucking into it.

Adam makes a little complaining noise when he stops moving, tightens his hands on Tommy’s hips. He pulls off with a slurp and looks up at Tommy with his eyes shining. “You feeling harassed yet, baby?”

Tommy lets out a breath before answering, resists the urge to just shove back into Adam’s mouth. “Not yet,” he replies past the dryness in his throat. “Almost, though, give me a minute more.”

Adam lifts his head and licks him, takes his cock back in and gets down to sucking. No fancy tricks, just his cheeks hollowed and throat working and it doesn’t take long before Tommy’s thighs start to shake and his vision blurs. He presses at Adam’s head in warning, and Adam pulls him determinedly closer with an arm behind Tommy’s hips. His cock hits the back of Adam’s throat, and his whole body seizes with it, head thumping onto the wall and toes clenching uselessly as Adam strokes his back and swallows.

He has to lean his head against the headboard, a little unsteady, as Adam kisses his thighs and smiles up at him, so sweet and pleased. Tommy pets his hair with clumsy fingers, wants to say something but can’t find the breath. He touches Adam’s mouth instead, thumb across the lower lip, and Adam nips playfully at his fingers.

“You want me to?” he manages at last and Adam says, “Yes,” fast and loud like he thinks Tommy might change his mind if he actually gets to the end of the question. Tommy laughs and taps Adam’s face with his fingertips, crawls off Adam’s chest without injuring either of them and lies down beside him to kiss him again. Adam tastes – Tommy brain shies away from it for a moment, but Adam tastes like dick, like Tommy, and Tommy licks at him, unexpectedly thrilled by it.

Adam rubs up against him, urgent, and Tommy quits fucking around and wriggles downward, getting briefly distracted a couple of times along the way by things like the slope of Adam’s collarbone, his piercings all tempting, the freckles sprayed across his hipbone. “Tease,” Adam moans when Tommy skips his cock and shoves his legs wider.

“Nope, just orally fixated,” Tommy replies, and sets his teeth in the soft flesh of his inner thigh, bites gently and sucks to bring blood up to the surface.

“Oh Jesus,” says Adam faintly, and Tommy kisses the reddened spot and moves on, nibbles down to Adam’s knee and then turns his head to lick his way up the other leg. Adam’s hand lands in his hair, gentle, not pushing. “Tommy, have you ever,” he says, and Tommy smiles.

“Nothing this big. I mean I knew, anybody who’s seen you in those pants knows you’re fucking hung, baby, but,” he eyes Adam’s cock dubiously, “that’s really quite large.”

Adam pets his hair. “You don’t have to,” he says, and Tommy snorts and glares up at him through the hair that’s fallen over his face.

“I didn’t say that,” he insists. “We’re just gonna have to work up to you fucking me with that thing, is all.”

Adam squeaks at the thought, and the thing in question gives an excited little jump, almost taking Tommy’s eye out. Tommy looks up, meets Adam’s gaze, and they both crack up laughing, slightly hysterically. Tommy has to rest his head on Adam’s belly for a minute, so that when the laughter dries up, there’s Adam’s cock, not looking quite so big from this angle, nice and close, and from here he can just tilt his head and open his mouth. Adam’s not done laughing, gives a helpless hiccupy moan, and Tommy gets his hand on what he can’t reach with his mouth and settles in to do some cocksucking.

It turns out to be pretty zen, once he figures it out; hand, mouth, breathing. He keeps his teeth covered up and rubs his tongue around in a way Adam seems to really like, hands tightening in Tommy’s hair as he moans and breathes and sighs, and Tommy just closes his eyes and works his hand up and down, feeling the thickness and weight of him, the dribbles of precome on his tongue. He likes the way Adam sounds when he sucks harder, so he does that, works out a little rhythm with his hand and his mouth that makes Adam's heels dig into the bed, pretty noise coming spilling out of his mouth, and finally Adam groans and his hips go all stuttery, and he stammers something that might be Tommy's name, tugging at his hair. Tommy ignores him, sucks a little harder and tries that humming thing Adam did before, and Adam makes this hoarse noise and comes.

Adam goes all sort of blissfully limp and boneless, hands clenching and unclenching gently in Tommy’s hair in the aftershocks. Tommy manfully resists the urge to spit, holding it in his mouth instead, tasting it. It’s not as nasty as he’d expected, and he lets it slide back on his tongue, swallows on reflex.

“You don’t have to swallow,” says Adam, distantly, and Tommy turns his head so Adam can see his face, pokes his tongue out. Adam smiles down at him, sweet and dazed, runs his fingers through Tommy’s hair. “Tommy,” he says, and, “Oh, baby.”

Tommy presses his mouth to Adam’s belly, little tickle of hair against his lips. “S’not very professional to call me baby,” he points out.

“Not very professional to hump you on stage either, but these are the sacrifices we make,” says Adam, his voice all wobbly. He’s still smiling, like he can’t stop, and he cups his palm against Tommy’s cheek.

“Okay, hang on, I’m coming up there,” says Tommy, and crawls up so he can kiss Adam again, open-mouthed and wet-happy. Adam hums and cuddles him, both arms and a sneaky leg, rubs his back with long slow strokes and basically acts like he’s a big cat being petted into total satisfied oblivion.

“Oh my god,” says Adam at length, and bites Tommy’s cheek. “This is terrible, I’m never going to be able to keep my hands off you now.”

Tommy lifts his head and squints at Adam. “You never kept your hands off me anyway,” he says mildly, and Adam just laughs and wrestles him down to the bed to kiss him again.

They’re supposed to be playing mini-golf with the rest of the glamily that afternoon – one of Adam’s bright ‘we should totes spend our days off bonding as a family, guys!’ ideas. But of course Adam didn’t even make it to Tommy’s room until about lunchtime, so when Terrance calls to remind them that everyone’s waiting in the hotel lobby, they’re making out, lazily working up to a second round, and nothing short of meteor strike is getting Tommy out of this bed before bus call tomorrow morning.

“A twenty-four hour bug,” Adam is saying into the phone. He squints at the clock. “Make that eighteen hours, actually.” Whatever Terrance says is inaudible, but it makes him laugh. “Fuck plausible, man, whatever. You guys have fun, okay?”

“Very convincing,” Tommy says, flopping onto his back, and Adam smiles down at him, somehow managing to look both sweetly gleeful and very much like he wants to devour Tommy starting with his toes. 

He’s so pretty, Tommy just wants to put him in the bright light coming from the window and look at him for a while, his pale freckled skin and guileless eyes, the sweet, knowing curve of his mouth and his strong shoulders and the sharp jut of his collarbone. Adam leans down then, drapes himself over Tommy and covers him up and kisses him, slow and thorough.

“You know what’s awesome though,” says Tommy awhile later, to distract himself because Adam’s being a dirty tease.

“Hm?” says Adam, from where he’s licking curiously at the back of Tommy’s knee. It seems weird, but it makes Tommy shudder and thrill for no reason that he can see, so maybe Adam’s onto something.

“Um,” says Tommy, losing his train of thought. Adam laughs and bites his way back up until he’s nuzzling into the crease of Tommy’s thigh, pressing his legs wide, and Tommy doesn’t talk for a while after that.

It’s like scene from a movie, when he can open his eyes enough to take it in. The white hotel sheets all rumpled in the clear sunlight from the window, the way Adam moves over him, smiling and kissing him and looking at him with his eyes so expressive and loving, and Tommy himself at the centre of it, feeling that heavy pulse all the way down deep, overwhelmed.

Adam holds him afterwards, or lets Tommy hold him, murmurs pretty things about how amazing Tommy is and how long he’s been wanting and how they’ll have to put pants on and go back to Adam’s room to avoid shocking Monte when the others get back. It triggers something in Tommy’s brain and he pushes his fingers through Adam’s thick hair and smiles. 

“Oh, the bus,” he says, and Adam’s face creases in confusion. “That’s what’s awesome,” he clarifies. “That I’ll never have to sleep in that fucking coffin of a bunk again.”

“I knew you only loved me for my bed,” says Adam mournfully.

Tommy bites him on the chin and smiles. “That’s the fucking least of it.”


End file.
